“It might help if we knew something about the hanky. Like you said, it doesn’t look like it was meant for nose blowing,” I said.
Dinah responded with a few noncommittal uh-huhs, and I heard Jeremy’s voice in the background. At least he had finally shown up, but whatever he was saying inflamed her because even with her mouth away from the phone, I could tell she was yelling and heard her quite clearly tell him he better not go out the door or else. It was obvious our conversation was over. I said something about realizing it wasn’t a good time to talk, and as I was saying good-bye, she clicked off. I didn’t take it as being hung up on. Rather, she was too distracted to talk.
I stuck my cell into my purse and as I was setting down my things noticed the light was flashing on my house phone, which meant messages. Along with an offer of a discount on home repairs and a query from a Realtor interested in listing my house, there was a message from Patricia Bradford. Even on the machine her voice sounded cloying as she asked me to call her the moment I got home. She must want something, I thought, punching in her number.
Patricia didn’t have a machine. She had a maid. Before I finished explaining who I was, Patricia came on the phone. She seemed very happy to talk to me. She must want something big.
“We’re having some people in for cocktails. It’s a little get-together for some of Benjamin’s campaign people,” she gushed, “and I was hoping you could drop by.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Before you worked at the bookstore, didn’t you do something in publicity? I was just telling Benjamin you’d be a real asset to our team.”
I hesitated. I was flattered by what she’d just said, but I didn’t completely trust her. Up until now, Patricia had treated me like a fixture. I was just the person at the bookstore who set up chairs for her demonstration and book signing and was part of the crochet group. “When is it?”
“Now. I mean, sixish. It’s business casual. I’d really like you to come.” She seemed flummoxed. “Sorry for the late invite. I thought I sent you an invitation, but I found it stuck in my purse.”
I didn’t buy that story for a second, and even though I was curious about what she wanted from me, I decided to decline since Romance Night started at eight. She read my silence and tried to win me over by reeling off the names of all the people who were going to be there. They were indeed the movers and shakers of Tarzana, and though I didn’t actually know any of them, I recognized most of the names, until she got to Byron Nederman.
“Who’s he?” I asked. She had said his name in such a glowing tone, I was curious.
“He shares Benjamin’s vision for things, and he’s been very, very generous. We’re glad to have him on the team. I’m surprised you don’t know him. He’s tall and quite good-looking. I wish Benjamin would ask him where he gets his suits. They always hang so perfectly. But I’m not so sure about the bald look. I know it’s in now, but personally I think it makes him look like Mr. Clean.”
She kept rambling, but my mind was clicking. This Byron was tall, a good dresser and bald. Could he be the elusive man I’d seen at the Cottage Shoppe?
“Does he shop at Harrods? I think he’s just the man I’m looking for,” I said quickly, then held my breath waiting for her answer.
As soon as I heard her tone, I realized she’d misunderstood my interest.
“Molly, I know you’re single now and probably looking for a new husband. I’m sorry to dash your hopes, but Byron is gay.”
“But he’s coming to your party,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Yes, Molly, I already said he was. You did hear what I said about him,” Patricia cautioned.
“Of course, Patricia,” I said, then I accepted her invitation on the chance he was the bald man I was looking for.
She’d said it was business casual. I guessed that was somewhere between the khaki pants and shirts I wore to work and black tie. In the back of my closet was a stash of clothes left over from the business parties I used to attend with Charlie. I found the classic black linen dress I’d always paired with a red blazer. I debated between black heels and ballet flats. The heels won, though I knew my feet would complain.
After a quick shower, a blob of hair gel and some time with a hair dryer, I slipped into the dress and jacket and put on more makeup than I had worn in a long time. The shoes were last along with a pair of subdued gold hoop earrings. I almost jumped when I caught sight of my image in the mirror. Clothes definitely do make the person. I looked formidable and about ten years older.
I saw Patricia’s big white house almost every time I went out. It was perched on top of one of the ridges that ran south of Ventura Boulevard and was visible from all different angles. But I had no idea how to get on the street that led up to it. I went all the way to Corbin Avenue and back without figuring out the way in. I had to go home and check my street guide, and even then it was confusing to get through the maze of streets.
I whispered a wow as I finally pulled into the circular driveway that ran in front of the house. Of course there was valet parking. It seemed silly since the whole street was empty, but this was about image not reality. No wonder Patricia was hanging on to Benjamin for dear life. After her struggle as a single parent, she’d struck gold. I wasn’t sure where Benjamin’s money came from, just that his family was Bradford Industries.
A red-vested man opened my car door. He was discreet, but I did notice a slight look of disdain.
A uniformed maid answered the door and ushered me through the entrance hall into the living room, which had a panoramic view of the west San Fernando Valley.
I had heard of people’s houses so clean you could eat off the floor, but this was the first one I had seen where you could do surgery. There wasn’t a magazine out of place or a smudge on the glass coffee table. Every pillow on the cream-colored couch was perfectly plumped, and even with the twenty-five or so guests there wasn’t a stray cocktail napkin or empty glass sitting anywhere. I immediately started looking for my bald guy. But everyone I saw had hair.
A black-haired man set down a martini glass. Almost before it touched the table, a waiter appeared and removed it. A moment later, the same waiter appeared with a tray of drinks and offered me one. They were classic gin martinis with large green olives. I loved the smell of gin but was always disappointed by the taste. I took one of the offered wide-rimmed cocktail glasses, but knew I’d probably not get past a few sips. Besides, I wanted a clear head.
Thanks to The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation , I’d learned to check out every place I went to as though it were a crime scene. Patricia had definitely hired an interior decorator. Everything worked too perfectly. Nobody bought a painting of sunflowers, throw pillows and a vase in such perfectly blending shades of golden yellow by chance.
Though I did like the eclectic mix of furniture. There were some old, unusual pieces thrown in with the contemporary couch and chairs. I particularly liked the throne-shaped green velvet Victorian chair. Working as a table, an antique trunk sat next to an easy chair and made the room more interesting.
I surveyed the crowd for Byron Nederman and came up empty again. This time, though, I noted that everyone in the crowd had a similar look. The men all had short hair and wore well-tailored suits, and the women had over-styled hair, outfits that matched too well, lots of jewelry and red lipstick. They seemed older than me but probably weren’t. It was all about the clothes. These weren’t a bunch of campaign volunteers who stuffed envelopes or knocked on doors.
Patricia appeared from the center of the crowd and came over and greeted me as though I were visiting royalty.
“Benjamin, honey, look who’s here.” She slipped her arm around my shoulder and presented me to the other guests. “Everybody, this is Molly Pink. She’s the manager of Shedd & Royal Books and More and lead crocheter in that fabulous charity group I joined.”
Manager? Lead crocheter? Boy, was she laying it on thick. Adele would be green with envy and probably dressed to match. It was pretty
obvious why I got the boost in status as she introduced the others. They were all CEOs and business owners, and giving me a title made me seem like I fit in. But the big question was why?
I tried to pull Patricia aside and ask her about Byron Nederman, but she was already stepping away.
“Just mingle for a few minutes,” Patricia said as she made her way to a couple who had just arrived. “Benjamin and I have something we want to talk to you about later.”
I took an occasional sip of the martini, nibbled on baked brie and joined a small group standing by the window. I listened for a few minutes and then added something to the conversation. I had learned how to make small talk from the years of going to countless charity affairs, award shows and social evenings where I’d often known no one. Charlie always had clients or potential clients he wanted to talk to at such events. That’s the way it was when you were in public relations. You worked the room.
“Patricia and Benjamin have the look,” the small dark-haired owner of a Ford agency confided in me. “City council is only to get his feet wet. Then who knows? Maybe the White House.”
He seemed like the type who had no sense of humor, so I didn’t bother pointing out they were already in a white house. But he was right. They did have that look. Old enough to have some character in their faces, but young enough to appear vital and energetic. Patricia had latched onto a comet.
I asked him if he knew Byron Nederman.
“Of course. Everyone knows Byron,” the man said. I asked if he had seen him, but the Ford agency owner shook his head, though he assured me he’d heard Byron was coming for sure. Then he asked how I knew Byron. I said I’d met him at a sale at Harrods. The Ford guy gave me an odd look and stepped away.
I ditched the rest of my martini only to have the glass whisked away before it even touched the table. I was beginning to get impatient both for the arrival of Byron Nederman and for an answer as to why Patricia was laying it on so thick, and I needed to use the restroom.
Certainly I could do that. I walked back toward the entrance hall, looking for a powder room. I opened a few doors and found closets and noticed a hallway going in the other direction. More doors, and finally one with the right stuff. When I came out I was disoriented. It was that big of a house. Instead of going back toward the living room, I must have walked the wrong way and ended up in the Patricia’s Hints room. I knew that’s what it was because a cute wooden sign on the door said so.
I was amazed. Not only did Patricia never have a hair out of place, but apparently she also never had any stuff out of place, either. There were shelves filled with neatly labeled boxes and lots of books—some on cleaning formulas and some old ones with illegible spines. She had a testing table, a computer and lots of photos. Boxes of her new books were neatly stacked against the wall. She had a section set aside for yarn arts, as the label read. I noticed the tote bag I’d seen earlier. Next to it was the pattern for it.
My crochet room had started out neatly organized, but with a little time chaos had ensued. I’d start working on something, the phone would ring and I’d leave it on the couch. Then there were the bags of yarn I bought and needed to organize. I had discovered it was fast and easy to buy yarn, but making something was another story.
Patricia clearly was more disciplined. On one shelf she had her shawl project and next to it a clear plastic bag with a some yarn, directions and needles. Adele would have a fit. One of our own still hanging on to knitting. There was also a small wooden chest on the shelf. I slid open one of the drawers and noticed a selection of steel hooks.
“Patricia wondered what happened to you,” a male voice said behind me. I flinched in surprise and a little embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to snoop; I’d just gotten carried away. I certainly hadn’t intended to get caught, especially not by Benjamin.
“I was looking for the powder room and I made a wrong turn.” I raved on about the room to try to cover my nosiness. “Patricia is a wizard,” I said, gesturing toward all her hints stuff.
Benjamin nodded, but his eyes weren’t crinkly and friendly. He was covering it pretty well, but he seemed irritated. “Patricia was looking for you. We want to ask you about something.”
I felt nervous and flustered and started to babble. “Is it a good something or a bad something?” I asked, realizing as I did that I sounded pretty stupid. “Of course, it must be a good something.”
I grabbed a photo sitting on the desk. “Are these Kimmee and Demetrius?” I asked. Even if they were his stepchildren, talking about kids always seemed to smooth everything over. They were in Old West outfits, standing next to a stagecoach. “This must be from the PTA carnival the year she did the old-fashioned pictures.” I was really rambling now. “It was probably before you knew her. You should have seen all the costumes she brought.”
He nodded, and I kept going on about how they’d grown, how fast kids grew, how my sons had just been babies what seemed like five minutes ago and now they were men and so on. He stood in the doorway until I walked out, and then he followed me back to the living room.
“Here she is, honey. I found her admiring your hints room.” If he was annoyed, any trace of it had disappeared from his voice. A number of the guests had already left, and I began to wonder if the tall, bald Byron was really going to show. Patricia took me off into a corner. The we had turned into her talking to me.
She apologized for keeping me waiting and explained that the couple who had arrived were generous contributors. “Let me get to the point,” she began. “We’re collecting people now. When Benjamin gets elected we’re going to need a much bigger team, and the people who show themselves to be our friends now are going to be the ones we want on it.” She leveled her gaze at me. “I’m sure you realize this council seat is just a stepping stone to bigger things.”
“I’ve been getting that impression.” I was talking to her but checking the crowd for Mr. Nederman.
“I told Benjamin how underused you are at the bookstore. I mean, with your public relations background, you could be invaluable to us.”
Okay, so she was getting to me. Who doesn’t like to be told how great and underappreciated they are? She had all my attention now, and for a second I forgot that what I was really after was getting a chance to question the illusive bald guy.
I smiled and listened attentively while she rambled on about what an exciting future lay ahead for the team. Then she leaned in toward me, a sure sign she was getting to the important part.
“Of course, all of that depends on Benjamin getting elected. That’s our job right now, isn’t it?” She nodded, and I nodded with her. “I need your help on a few little things.”
Someone came into the room and called good-bye to her, and she smiled and waved in response. Her face grew serious as she turned her attention back to me.
“We need to change the date of the event.”
“Event?” I said, wondering if I’d missed something.
“My book signing for Patricia’s Perfect Hints, Volume 4. Benjamin’s campaign manager suggested moving it up.”
I shrugged and said I didn’t think it would be a problem. If need be, I’d switch somebody else. Before I could ask her if she had a preferred date, she handed me a piece of paper with a date on it, so I’d be sure to get it right. Okay. Not a surprise since Patricia was such a micromanager.
“And there’s something more. I’d like to incorporate Benjamin into the program. Instead of taking someone from the crowd, I’d like to use him for the demonstration.”
Again, I told her it was no problem. If Benjamin wanted to be the one she poured red wine on, far be it from me to stand in his way. I started to move away. “At the next crochet meeting, I’ll confirm the date.”
Patricia put her hand on my arm, stopping my retreat. “There’s one more thing. You’d don’t mind if we bring along someone to videotape it, do you?”
Whoa. Now I got it. Patricia was good. She had played me like a cello. First, the whole thing about maki
ng me sound like I ran the bookstore and raving on about my underappreciated skills and hinting that if I was a good soldier, I’d end up an important part of the team. Then getting me to keep saying yes to little things until she got to what she really wanted.
“That might be a problem. You should really talk to Mrs. Shedd about it,” I said.
“You are in charge of events, aren’t you? Besides, other people have videotaped their book signings and demonstrations.” When I gave her a blank look, she helped my memory. “Don’t you remember that Brenda Rochner? She’s the author of The Bagel Solution. She had both her uncle and her brother there with cameras.”
It was coming back to me now. “That’s right. Her uncle almost got burned when he went in for a close-up of Brenda dropping the dough circles in the vat of boiling water.”
“If Brenda could do it, why can’t I?”
“They just showed up with video cameras,” I said, realizing Patricia was backing me into a corner.
“So, you’re going to penalize me for asking first?” she said with her hand still on my arm.
She had me. What could I say? As soon as I agreed, her face brightened and she made an okay sign with her fingers. When I turned, Benjamin was standing in the doorway.
The next thing I knew, she’d shoved a piece of paper in front of me. I tried to read it, but she kept moving it around so it jiggled and the words were just black squiggles.
“It’s nothing important. It just says you said it was okay. Benjamin is such a stickler about doing things one hundred percent right.” She handed me a pen and pointed to a line on the bottom. I scribbled my name and she pulled it away.
“Don’t I get a copy?” I asked, but Patricia had already handed it off to Benjamin, who promptly disappeared.
“Molly, you’re a dear. We really mean it about you being part of the team.” She hugged me and kissed the air next to my cheek. “I really appreciate how you came at the last minute, but I don’t want to keep you from whatever important thing you tore yourself away from to come.”
Dead Men Don't Crochet Page 13
